


Why are all the hot guys dead?

by countallurteeth



Category: My Chemical Romance, frerard - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countallurteeth/pseuds/countallurteeth
Summary: Why are all the hot guys dead? That's a good question. Gerard Way, a young and very gay mortician, asks himself that nearly every day. His job is nearly the same every day; hosting funerals, consoling the dead, accidentally resurrecting dead bodies-Well, that last one isn't part of the routine until one typical yet fateful day.....||Triggers||DeathDepression/self-depreciationGore (handling of dead bodies, describing death)I WILL REWRITE THIS EVENTUALLY. 6/9/2020
Relationships: frerard - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Why are all the hot guys dead?

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Gerard apologized to some woman he didn't know, as per usual. Even though the population of Belleville was small for New Jersey, and the number of people dying here was much slimmer, he still didn't recognize this woman. Lots of people were born here, sure, but not many people die here. Who wants to die in Belleville, New Jersey? Gerard didn't even think he'd still be here once he moved out of his parents' place, yet here he was, running a funeral home and watching people sniffle and cry all day. It wasn't necessarily that he lacked empathy for these people- He really did understand how hard death can be. He'd had multiple people in his life, especially the two closest to him, die in front of his eyes. Although once you see this nearly three times a week, every week, for almost ten years, it gets old very quickly.

Gerard was a bit husky, standing at about five foot nine inches without heeled shoes and chubbier than you would expect. His skin was the color of porcelain figurine, mostly brought on by hardly ever going outside. The man found more joy in talking to his silent 'co-workers' instead of sitting in the sun. The sun was his enemy, as he often joked to faces that never cracked a grin.

He frequently dyed his hair black, the brown roots now showing where his hair had grown to grace his shoulders. He really needed to get to dying it again, dumping the tar-like substance over the milk chocolate color, forming some kind of dark chocolate instead. He took his hair quite seriously, especially since it was one of his favorite things to play with. When he was a teenager, he used to never wash his hair, but now that appearance was part of his _job_ , he actually washed it. When he was a teenager, he'd also dyed it a bunch of crazy colors, too, including fiery red. But now, it rested at midnight.

Some people still called him 'Greasy' for fun anyway, but he'd really grown to look like a professional, reasonable adult. And that he was. He had always been shy, soft spoken and nearly obsolete in the scene of public school, and his manner of always seeming propper had followed him into adulthood. Social skills, to some extent, were needed for this profession, but nothing beyond it, which he enjoyed greatly. He only had to do an hour or two of socializing at a time, and that was plenty for him.

When one is a mortician, they don't really get to express themselves in their work. Even though Gerard was an artist at heart, and a bit to the side, he had to put his own vision mostly to the side. Funerals are very important to people- Almost as important as weddings, in fact. It's a place to say a final goodbye, to see your family members one more time before you forget they ever existed in the first place, whether alive or dead. People are usually particular about what they need in the space during the funeral, whether it be a favourite flower or a favourite song or even a favourite air freshener. And oftentimes, it's horrendous at first. Colors clashed, there were too many scents, and the music seems ill-fitting. Thankfully, after some reasoning, people listened to his input. Just like that, a funeral can become a work of art. It was a cooperative effort, although his artistic vision shone through the most.

Death had become a job for him, and the celebration afterwards, a passion. It was fitting for the man, seeing as death followed him like it was a hobby. His first experience with death being his grandmother, who he watched flatline in a hospital at the ripe age of seven. Then, a classmate, falling off the stage next to Gerard in the fifth grade school play, breaking his neck. Most recently, his brother, who, when he was only fourteen, went into cardiac arrest. He felt like it followed him everywhere, nicking at his heels and threatening to make him trip. He feared it for a long time, but eventually grew used to it. It became more of a comfort to him- And along with being raised catholic, he began to see it as a security blanket. And of course, being a refined goth adult after his years of being an emo teenager, he already only wore black. So this job was obviously a perfect fit.

The woman let out a choked sob, nodding and yanking a flash of white from her pocket. She dabbed the handkerchief against the corners of her eyes, nodding as she shuffled along. It seemed nearly everyone was rather upset about it today, especially her. Gerard had seen plenty of funerals where people were happy- whether joyous from a celebration of life, or relieved from a celebration of death, but today, no one was happy.

The deceased was a twenty-five year old woman, caucasian, on the taller side. Gerard had prepared the body himself, and he believed he'd done quite a good job too, seeing as her lower half was completely severed. She had died in a bus accident, which was as far as the authorities had told Gerard. He truly was fortunate he didn't have to be the one to salvage the body. He could handle preparing it, but only after the body had been properly taken care of by a recovery team. He considered his job easy compared to what they had to do. All he had to do was put together a bit of a party, do some makeup, embalm some people and apologize about the dead to a bunch of people. It's rather different seeing a scene from a horror movie in real life.

He'd probably said the sentence "I'm sorry for your loss" about two hundred times so far. He tried to count sometimes, but he'd lost track somewhere around one hundred and two. This was a rather large funeral, especially for someone with seemingly few familial contacts. On average, around fifty people attend, sometimes one hundred if the deceased was especially loved. Whoever this chick was must've been popular.

She lay in her casket, lower-half hidden by a partially closed lid. Her black hair spread in a halo around her head, black fabric cascading down her pale, pale skin and shimmering in the light. She held a bouquet of roses in her hand, perfectly matching the sash Gerard had tied just above the cutoff of her body to make it seem more natural. She looked rather like an angel wrapped in midnight, carrying her favorite bit of the sunset into the afterlife. She was...beautiful. Gerard truly had done a great job on her body, and he could hear little murmurs about it all around through the day. Being proud of the appearance of a dead body was an odd thing to be proud of, and sounded rather like something a serial killer would brag about, but no, Gerard was not a serial killer. He just took pride in his craft, and making sure people could actually accept when one was dead. Hence why he left her skin pale, her eyes closed naturally, a little less makeup than she did in life. It was easier for people to accept one was dead if things were a little off, but not too off. There's a fine balance, and Gerard was quite great at finding it.

The funeral ran late, the last _living_ person filing through the doors around ten at night. The moon had already risen by then, the sky overtaken by the stars spreading out a vast, dark blanket for their routine picnic. Gerard took a breath of fresh air, his exhale making a burlesque of cotton candy in the sky. It was sort of peaceful this way, even though the cold, nippy, March air bit at his biceps and hands. He was wearing long sleeves, but dress shirts hardly wield any strength against the cold. He shuddered, rubbing his beat-up palms just below his shoulder up and down, just as you see in every movie. He really did find it worked, though.

He knew he ought to go inside, finish any embalming he had for the night and make sure everything was in order for tomorrow. But he didn't, not yet. He hesitated for a moment. Everything felt so still, yet so unrestful. Dead, yet bursting with life as if it were straight from the womb of the earth. It was such a paradoxical moment, a folie de l'un. This obsolete yet infinite moment captured him. But only for a fleeting second.

He returned back inside, cramming his hand into his pocket and ripping the keys out of the slightly faded interior of his pockets. It was an odd thing, to think about nearly forgetting to lock the door. Not that there wasn't much of value here, but regardless. The only thing he really had to protect that was of any importance was the loved ones of those outside, sleeping away in their cabinets.

He turned the key in the lock, pulling it out, and putting the jingle machine back in his pocket. So, so quiet.

Gerard still had one body to examine for tonight before he could go home. Embalming typically takes around forty-five minutes, the rest of the preparation taking up to two hours. Embalming, however, can last for years and years, so it was much better to prepare a body while he wasn't exhausted. Well, he was exhausted, but at least he was already used to it for the day. Also, seeing as this funeral was planned by someone who clearly didn't care, it was taking place about ten minutes after the home opened. The only reason he knew nobody cared was because they both refused to be identified, and refused to pay for it.

Yikes.

Retreating back through the common room, he took a left just before the second hall, unlocking the door before him. Having a sort of...laboratory in the middle of a funeral home could be rather upsetting to some, so Gerard's office was a hidden door that lead to the basement. He walked inside, descending the rickety stairs and saying a silent prayer when that one stair, "Fourthy" as Gerard had nicknamed it, ripped a monstrous creak. This building was rather new in the schemes of buildings, but nothing comes without its mistakes, especially in the realm of buildings. The fourth stair down never failed to let out a sound like it was going to shatter to splinters under Gerard's foot whenever he walked on it.

Once he finished passing the "Stairs of doom", he walked over to the cabinet immediately to his left, producing some gloves, safety goggles and a miscellaneous box of mixing utensils and needles. From there, he crossed the imitation-marble floor, setting down his box on his workspace.   
  


"Oh shit. Did I already mix....?" He trailed off, talking to himself aloud as he moved to the fridge. Gerard talked to himself aloud a lot, at least until he switched on some music, just to fill the silence. Bodies can oddly absorb a lot of sound, although this sort of type can't exactly produce any of their own.

Gerard kicked his foot out to the side, jolting the radio awake as music started blasting through the whole laboratory.

"Now that's more like it!" He laughed a tiny bit, pulling open the fridge door. Producing a jug of a fruit punch-looking liquid, specifically the fruit punch that was typically labeled "tropical" but looked more like blue battery acid than anything tropical, he kicked the fridge closed which shouted a little jingle of glass from the inside. He set the jug down on his workspace, taking a moment to sway a little bit side to side to the beat of the music. Who says adults can't have a little fun?

"Alright, who's on the menu today?" He waltzed over to slot number one, pulling out the little gurney and wheeling it over to his workspace. A white sheet, looking rather like woven bleach and more like it than fabric at this point, was draped over the body. The sheet disguised the body, mostly as a courtesy for what shred of dignity the man who lie beneath owned. It was just a little way to be respectful, for the most part.

Clipped to the side of the gurney was a clipboard, a sheet of paper as white as the body's covering hanging on it in an almost ominous sort of manner. Gerard picked it up, holding it a bit closer to his face.

Here it was. This person's entire life summed up in Times New Roman (size twelve font).

Name: Frank Anthony Thomas Iero Jr.

Date of birth: 10/31/1981

Date of death: 3/22/XXXX

Cause of death: Car crash. Piece of metal impaled his heart. The piece of metal has been removed but wound has not been closed.

No remaining family willing to claim the body. All those who are alive refused.

Once again,

Yikes.

Gerard peeled back the sheet, looking at the man's pale face. He had a nice bone structure, which is the first thing Gerard noticed. Strong jawline. He had sunken eyes too, but they were gigantic, even when closed. He had soft-looking lips, chestnut hair, a cute button-like nose.

He was handsome. Even Gerard had to admit. Gerard didn't feel attraction to dead bodies, nor did he think anyone should, but he had to admit, this made his heart hurt just a bit. This guy- _Frank_ , was incredibly attractive, and if only he was alive, Gerard would have fallen for him in a heartbeat.

The mortician let out a sigh, shaking his head. Why do all the hot guys have to be dead?

**_ (A/N)  
WELL HOWDY, GANG!! HAVE A RE-WRITTEN CHAPTER ONE FOR HALLOWEEN/SAMHAIN/IEROWEEN _ **

**_ 10/31/19 _ **


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